The Irish Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Alexis Harrington
Tags: historical romance irish
threats in good
times and bad, a coward could not survive in Ireland.
She took another glance at the lean,
powerful man slogging along beside her. When she had run home to
escape Noel Cardwell, she’d believed herself to be more afraid than
she’d ever been in her life or ever would be again. She knew she
might face arrest or some other punishment that he might care to
visit upon her. Now she realized there were far worse prisons than
the kind with iron bars and that she’d just been condemned to one.
Not for just a few months, or even for a few years.
But for life.
* * *
Noel Cardwell sat in the dark-paneled
study at Greensward Manor, rolling a drained brandy glass between
his hands. Behind the huge mahogany desk, Lord Arthur Cardwell
studied his account book, a thick, leather-bound ledger where he
kept track of his tenants’ rent payments.
Regardless of the duels he had fought,
the women he’d bedded, the horse races he had won, and all the
other manly pursuits in which he excelled, in this room, Noel
always felt as if he were twelve years old again. Twelve years old
and brought here because of some prank or misdeed that his
humorless father would not abide. Nothing Noel had ever done had
pleased the dictatorial old man; they seemed to be on opposite
sides of all issues. Now he did his best to keep from fidgeting in
his chair and believed he was making a proper job of it. Not an
easy task considering the subject of this meeting, although nearly
all conversations with his lordship were enough to drive a man to
the brandy decanter.
The endless tick of the mantle clock
was the only sound in the room, save the dry, papery drag of the
old man’s finger down the column of figures before him. God, to
actually keep one’s own accounts like—like a penny-hoarding
merchant or a factor, toiling over long columns and worrying about
every single shilling. He suppressed a shudder. A true gentleman
hired people to see to such mundane tasks rather than stain his own
fingers with ink, scratching away with his pen. That was why Noel
had hired Michael Kirwan to do his bidding. It had not been the
most sagacious decision, he realized now.
When his father had burdened him with
the tedious responsibility of collecting the rents, Noel forced
himself to stifle a loud, disgusted sigh. As far as he was
concerned, the Irish were nothing but a pack of lazy, drunken,
story-telling bog-trotters. Their circumstances troubled his
conscience not one whit, nor did he mind the feudalistic system
that put money in his pockets for the gaming tables and other
pleasant pastimes. Yes, he enjoyed the income, but Christ, he
didn’t want to be bothered with the grubby collection of
it.
Hiring Michael Kirwan as the estate’s
rent agent had seemed like a brilliant solution. Though younger
than their previous rent agent, he was ambitious and surprisingly
unencumbered with such impediments as sympathy or loyalty to the
rabble that resided on Cardwell land. He knew how the crofters
lived and how their minds worked. And he was anxious to acquire the
same comforts he’d seen at Greensward Manor. One could almost
forget that Kirwan himself came from those same people. Or at least
forgive him for it.
But even more importantly, his sister
was Farrell Kirwan. Perhaps she, more than any other consideration,
had influenced Noel’s decision. He rarely paid any attention to the
peasants living on the Cardwell acreage. The men were shiftless and
brawling, and their women were threadbare old hags by the time they
reached their twenties, due to constant childbearing and carping at
their shiftless, brawling men. Farrell was different, though. He’d
heard that she was betrothed to one of the O’Rourke brothers, but
that posed no obstacle as far as Noel was concerned. He simply
wanted her and he was accustomed to getting his way. But the
flame-haired beauty was as proud and haughty as a queen despite her
poverty, and she would not speak two words to him. Even when
times and bad, a coward could not survive in Ireland.
She took another glance at the lean,
powerful man slogging along beside her. When she had run home to
escape Noel Cardwell, she’d believed herself to be more afraid than
she’d ever been in her life or ever would be again. She knew she
might face arrest or some other punishment that he might care to
visit upon her. Now she realized there were far worse prisons than
the kind with iron bars and that she’d just been condemned to one.
Not for just a few months, or even for a few years.
But for life.
* * *
Noel Cardwell sat in the dark-paneled
study at Greensward Manor, rolling a drained brandy glass between
his hands. Behind the huge mahogany desk, Lord Arthur Cardwell
studied his account book, a thick, leather-bound ledger where he
kept track of his tenants’ rent payments.
Regardless of the duels he had fought,
the women he’d bedded, the horse races he had won, and all the
other manly pursuits in which he excelled, in this room, Noel
always felt as if he were twelve years old again. Twelve years old
and brought here because of some prank or misdeed that his
humorless father would not abide. Nothing Noel had ever done had
pleased the dictatorial old man; they seemed to be on opposite
sides of all issues. Now he did his best to keep from fidgeting in
his chair and believed he was making a proper job of it. Not an
easy task considering the subject of this meeting, although nearly
all conversations with his lordship were enough to drive a man to
the brandy decanter.
The endless tick of the mantle clock
was the only sound in the room, save the dry, papery drag of the
old man’s finger down the column of figures before him. God, to
actually keep one’s own accounts like—like a penny-hoarding
merchant or a factor, toiling over long columns and worrying about
every single shilling. He suppressed a shudder. A true gentleman
hired people to see to such mundane tasks rather than stain his own
fingers with ink, scratching away with his pen. That was why Noel
had hired Michael Kirwan to do his bidding. It had not been the
most sagacious decision, he realized now.
When his father had burdened him with
the tedious responsibility of collecting the rents, Noel forced
himself to stifle a loud, disgusted sigh. As far as he was
concerned, the Irish were nothing but a pack of lazy, drunken,
story-telling bog-trotters. Their circumstances troubled his
conscience not one whit, nor did he mind the feudalistic system
that put money in his pockets for the gaming tables and other
pleasant pastimes. Yes, he enjoyed the income, but Christ, he
didn’t want to be bothered with the grubby collection of
it.
Hiring Michael Kirwan as the estate’s
rent agent had seemed like a brilliant solution. Though younger
than their previous rent agent, he was ambitious and surprisingly
unencumbered with such impediments as sympathy or loyalty to the
rabble that resided on Cardwell land. He knew how the crofters
lived and how their minds worked. And he was anxious to acquire the
same comforts he’d seen at Greensward Manor. One could almost
forget that Kirwan himself came from those same people. Or at least
forgive him for it.
But even more importantly, his sister
was Farrell Kirwan. Perhaps she, more than any other consideration,
had influenced Noel’s decision. He rarely paid any attention to the
peasants living on the Cardwell acreage. The men were shiftless and
brawling, and their women were threadbare old hags by the time they
reached their twenties, due to constant childbearing and carping at
their shiftless, brawling men. Farrell was different, though. He’d
heard that she was betrothed to one of the O’Rourke brothers, but
that posed no obstacle as far as Noel was concerned. He simply
wanted her and he was accustomed to getting his way. But the
flame-haired beauty was as proud and haughty as a queen despite her
poverty, and she would not speak two words to him. Even when